


Even the Darkness Has Arms

by Band_obsessed



Series: Darkest Before the Dawn [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s04e01-02 The Darkest Hour, Gen, M/M, Missing Scene, Pre-Slash, Vulnerable Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:47:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27081427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Band_obsessed/pseuds/Band_obsessed
Summary: The doors to Arthur’s chambers are still open; enough for the light from the antechamber to spill in, to fragment the shadows, scatter them into the corners, beneath the bed, the table. Wide enough for anybody passing through to see them here, clinging to each other like small children in the midst of a storm.ORMerlin has always known how to give Arthur the things that he needs but cannot ask for.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Darkest Before the Dawn [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2028496
Comments: 22
Kudos: 200





	Even the Darkness Has Arms

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in this fandom, so please be patient while I find my footing a little bit more. 
> 
> I absolutely adored the scene with Arthur and Merlin in Arthur's chambers in the first part of The Darkest Hour, but I also wanted something _more_ from it. This is my attempt to remedy that, and give them the comfort that was so badly needed after all that had happened.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Title from _Even the Darkness Has Arms_ by the Barr Brothers

The candles roll across the floor quicker than Merlin can stop them. He watches, motionless, as they come to a gradual halt, settle in the grout between the tiles. The dorocha continue shrieking, sharp and piercing and Merlin stands, helpless — fingers clenching and unclenching around a match that’s quickly burning out.

The flame jumps from the wood to his knuckles and Arthur slaps the match from his grip, extinguishes the small flame beneath his heel.

“I—I thought I saw something,” Merlin says by way of explanation, stuttered and quiet. Scared in a way he has never heard his own voice sound before.

Whatever reply Arthur had readied dies on his tongue as the next shriek pierces the air — closer, louder — and Merlin starts, jolts like he’s been struck by a current. Even his magic retreats, curls back inside his bones, hides its face beneath all his blood. He is powerless, here. Helpless. Completely at the mercy of the dead — the cold, screaming spirits.

His hands shake at his sides, knees nearly buckling under the weight of his fear, the weight of his body. There is nowhere to hide. Not in this open space at the centre of the room.

Arthur’s form falls in line next to his — all clean cut lines and cold, hard armour. “Do you want me to get one of the maids to fetch it for you?” he teases but there is something strained in his words. His smile falters at the edges.

Merlin’s stomach turns in anger, in primal, urgent fear. “It’s not a joke,” he hisses, refusing to tear his gaze away from the window, from the drapes, from the darkness writhing around beneath the heavy velvet. The curtain sways, shadows stretching long and _hungry_ from beneath it, creeping along the floor on spindly, scraping fingers.

And Merlin still can’t move.

Why can’t he _move?_ Throw himself across the room, place his frail, shaking body in front of Arthur’s, use whatever he has left to protect him from the souls of dead, the damned.

But Arthur steps in front of _him_ and it’s wrong, all wrong, so wrong that Merlin wants to scream. He begs his mouth to move, for his breath to do more than rattle hollowly in his chest, snag in his throat.

But it doesn’t and Arthur keeps walking, places one foot in front of the other, sword drawn and readied and Merlin’s breath halts altogether, fear sticking his lungs to his ribs, caught in a perpetual spasm of _duty_ and _fear_ and _destiny_.

In the glimmer of the candlelight Arthur’s hand shakes, trembles so that shadows bounce from his sword, cleave what little light there is in two. The blood drains from Merlin’s face, his fingers, and his legs quiver, muscles straining; coiled, ready to run, to bolt. Bolt from the room. Bolt towards Arthur. From the window, to the hallway, anywhere, somewhere away from—

The curtain is yanked aside. Slides against the railing with a hiss beneath Arthur’s sword. Reveals nothing but cold, empty space in front of a stone wall.

Merlin’s breath leaves him in a rush that’s more a whine than an exhale — a pained croak of a noise, harsh in the thudding silence and Arthur is at his side in an instant, a hand on his shoulder, his neck.

He is warm and solid and so unlike the dorocha that Merlin sobs, stumbles forwards until his forehead is pressed to Arthur’s clavicle, his chainmail pressing incessantly against his skin. Not that he cares. He couldn’t, not now. Not here. Not when Arthur’s chin is a reassuring weight atop his head, when Arthur’s arms loop around him, strong and sure and suffocatingly tight.

With every passing second the underlying fear that Arthur will shove him away or stumble from the embrace with a look of disgust recedes, slinks back into the shadows, banished by the candlelight. Perhaps he needs this as much as Merlin does. A warm touch, something corporeal. Something grounding.

Camelot is ablaze with small fires, tiny pinpricks glowing faintly from the window — a moving sea of flames and heat and it’s still not enough for the wails to cease.

It will never be enough to drive them back completely.

It doesn’t occur to Merlin that Arthur is just as afraid as he is until he presses the words against the column of Arthur’s throat — _“You’re not scared?”_ — until Arthur’s arms jerk around his middle as a wail carries through the air, slices the still silence in two. His pulse drums against Merlin’s lips, a muted, frenzied thudding and Merlin is suddenly acutely aware of how tight Arthur is fisting his tunic, tangling his fingers into the material with enough force for the threads to strain.

It’s not like Arthur hasn’t torn his clothing before — certainly he’s stained them countless times, splashed wine or ink or mud across his tunics, his trousers — but this is different. Arthur’s hands are always methodical, always just. His grip is always assessing, searching, probing for weaknesses, for strengths — he _knows_ the correct pressure to use when he tugs at Merlin’s arm, when he claps him on the back, nudges him with his shoulder. But this is frantic — a blind, fumbling fear that controls his fingers, sends them scrabbling against the material.

It unnerves Merlin more than the dorocha, seeing Arthur so openly afraid.

“Oh I am, Merlin.” His arms tighten briefly, chin grazing Merlin’s head as he turns, takes in the sight of his kingdom beyond the glass, beyond the castle walls. “Maybe more than you.”

The doors to Arthur’s chambers are still open, enough for the light from the antechamber to spill in, to fragment the shadows, scatter them into the corners, beneath the bed, the table. Wide enough for anybody passing through to see them here, clinging to each other like small children in the midst of a storm.

Merlin’s trepidation does what his fear alone cannot — he moves, stiff-legged, motions to pull away from Arthur, reluctant and trembling. “The doors, Arthur. People could—“

“Let them.” Arthur grabs Merlin’s wrist, splays his hand against the back of his ribs and keeps him pressed close. The hilt of his sword clinks against his armour, a loud, metallic ring and Merlin’s timid confidence shatters, fear melting the sharp edges of his resolve back down into sand.

“I don’t suppose you can spare a knight for the evening, sire?” he asks and lets his nails catch in the links in Arthur’s armour in a small, repetitive motion.

Arthur huffs, a sigh or a laugh Merlin cannot tell. “What use could you possibly have for a knight when you have the prince?”

“Well, between you and me, I’ve been told he’s a bit rubbish with a sword,” Merlin says and presses his smile against Arthur’s skin, hides it from his view. He knows Arthur can hear it anyway.

There is safety in humour — in the way Arthur’s chin digs roughly into his head in retaliation as he scoffs, familiar and easy.

“You know, Merlin, I’m sure the walk from here to your bed is lovely at this time of night. A route best walked alone, I’d say.”

He means to reply in the same light-hearted way Arthur had, but the easy humour he had mustered up seconds before vanishes at the thought of the streets now. At the suffocating darkness, the flames more like candles than torches. It’s bad enough up here, in Arthur’s chambers, in Arthur’s embrace. A fraction of the fear Merlin knows would strangle him reaches into his chest with cold fingers, squeezes around his heart, his lungs. “You wouldn’t.”

Immediately Arthur’s tone sobers. “No, I would not.”

His breath is warm against Merlin’s head and Merlin clings to the sensation, closes his eyes and curses his vulnerability — his powerlessness. He has not tried to summon his magic since the village — too afraid of that vast, bottomless pit inside of him. It only grows as the dorocha continue their flights, looping around and around the city, the sky, nothing but shadowed blurs outside the windowpane. Merlin couldn’t stop his legs from trembling if he tried.

“Stay,” Arthur whispers, so quietly that Merlin could almost believe it to have been the wind. He does not repeat himself. Doesn’t give any indication that he had spoken at all and if Merlin didn’t know him as well as he does he would let himself believe the word to be nothing more than a stray breeze. But he does know Arthur. Knows him better than he knows himself sometimes, and there was something vulnerable in the way his voice shook, the way his hands hadn’t eased their hold on Merlin’s back.

“You know,” Merlin starts, forcing a confidence he doesn’t feel into his words, “it’s alright for some.”

“Oh?”

“You and your big bed in your fancy chambers. I bet you’ll have double the guards stationed at your door tonight, too.”

“I am the prince, Merlin — a fact which seems to slip your mind at an alarming rate. Are you _sure_ you haven’t hit your head?”

Merlin ignores him, ignores the shadows, the cries from outside the window, the bite of the cold carrying through the doors.

“You know what you need?” he asks and presses his finger to Arthur’s chest for emphasis, slips his hand up between their torsos.

“Please, enlighten me.”

“Me.”

Arthur laughs, strained. “You?”

“Who else is going to keep your candles lit? There’s a dreadful wind about, sire. Even you must be able to feel it — despite all your…insulation.” Merlin’s hand dips to poke at Arthur’s waist before he can catch it. He always has known how to give Arthur the things that he needs but cannot ask for.

Arthur scowls — “Just for that, _Mer_ lin, you’ll be sleeping on the floor tonight.” — but he is relaxing already — in increments, at first; the tension slipping from his shoulders, his grip loosening around the hilt of his sword.

“Well I was hardly expecting you to let me take your bed, _sire_.” Arthur does push him away then and Merlin sobers immediately, already mourns the loss of contact, the warmth.

“At this rate neither of us will be sleeping in it. You haven’t even changed the sheets. Honestly, Merlin, what do I pay you for?”

“My irresistible charm? My rugged good looks?”

“You, Merlin, are many things — charming is not amongst them.”

“So you think I’m handsome then?”

Merlin narrowly avoids the empty goblet thrown in his direction. It clatters against the tile, loud and shrill and the humour dissipates as quickly as it had arrived, shattered irreparably in the sudden noise.

Neither of them mention the hug. Already Arthur is straightening his armour, sheathing his sword and turning back towards the table as if nothing had happened and Merlin knows when to let a topic sit, when to let Arthur retreat from his reach.

“Arthur?” he calls as he busies his hands with lighting the candles. Arthur will not appreciate the way they tremble, still — the way his fingers twitch with every shriek outside. “Thank you.”

Arthur doesn’t look up from his papers. Merlin doesn’t expect him to. But he can see the slope of his shoulders tense, his mouth part in surprise, and thinks, for the first time, that perhaps he doesn’t require a response.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please consider leaving a comment or kudos if you enjoyed it <3


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